


Pushing Envelopes

by motsureru



Category: Heroes - Fandom, Pushing Daisies
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-29
Updated: 2008-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-11 19:10:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motsureru/pseuds/motsureru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers: Season 3 (vaguely)</p><p><b>Notes: </b>This fic was written as a combination of two of <a href="http://be-found.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://be-found.livejournal.com/"><b>be_found</b></a>'s Christmas wishlist requests:</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>- Mylar <b>Pushing Daisies</b> style, Sylar gets Ned's ability and brings a Mohinder back to life.</span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Angst/drama not fluff. </span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>- What should have happened in S3 when Sylar discovered Mohinder had powers.</span>
  </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pushing Envelopes

**Author's Note:**

> You do not need to watch **Pushing Daisies** to understand the fic. It should be noted that the **PD** style of narration is completely at odds with the type of mylar angst to be included. So I have doubts about whether or not they successfully work together. Either way, the attempt was made. ^_^ The characterizations here represent episode **3x07** **Eris Quod Sum** , though I toned down Sylar’s slightly OOC parental issues from this time to the more relevant and consistent doubts he had concerning his place on the good/evil continuum. My belief that he had a little more agency over his beliefs during that time than the writers gave him credit for is reflected here.
> 
> Also, the use of Ned’s alias is not canon in either series.
> 
> An _enormous_ amount of thanks to [](http://etoile-dunord.livejournal.com/profile)[**etoile_dunord**](http://etoile-dunord.livejournal.com/)  for beta work! __

*~~~~~~~~~~~~*

 

  


The facts were these: 

 

It was exactly 9 days, 7 hours, 24 minutes, and 5 seconds since the Brain-eater and the Geneticist had participated in a head-bashing quarrel that left the former unconscious and the latter feeling rather good about at least this one thing in the bleak life of his that had been spinning wildly out of control.

To say ‘the Brain-eater’ was, in fact, a misnomer. The once humble watchmaker, Gabriel Gray, born screaming into this world 33 years 5 months 13 days, 7 hours, 4 minutes, and 28 seconds ago, had a very judicious sense of taste, and his palette was not one he was likely to soil with tangy blood and uncooked gray matter, much less that of a stranger of whom he could not properly decide the delectability of on sight alone. Nonetheless, as he became known as Sylar, the man who left a calling card of empty skulls and missing brains, the public at large (which was not very large at all, and was restricted to a group of people with very unusual abilities) came to think of him as the sort of person who might take his tea with a zombie and never bat an eyelash in concern. So it was that ‘Brain-eater’ was a special name reserved only for people’s innermost thoughts, where Sylar’s keen sense of hearing could not catch them.

One man, however, knew better than to make arbitrary conclusions about the Brain-eater’s dietary habits. Mohinder Suresh, who had been born quite quietly under the watchful eyes of a hopeful professor Chandra Suresh 32 years 8 months, 16 days, 11 hours, 17 minutes, and 3 seconds prior in a busy Chennai hospital in India, was the scientist who had discovered quite some time ago that the Brain-eater was not actually a brain-eater at all, but a very disturbed man with an enviable ability that the Geneticist wished to examine from the more enjoyable end of a syringe.

Unfortunately, the Geneticist was sure he would never have the opportunity again, as he currently laid, cold and dead, in one of the drawers of the Pinehearst morgue. It was an unexpected turn of events: regrettably heated words towards a regrettably hot-headed man named Flint resulted in the punch to face- Mohinder’s twenty-third in his lifetime- that ended his turbulent existence. Unlike most changes in his life, this was not a fast one. The subdural hematoma, a mystery to both the quick-to-strike Flint and the hard-headed Mohinder, bled steadily away for 4 days, 13 hours, 6 minutes, and 37 seconds before the Geneticist fell face-first into his microwaveable curry dinner, as dead as his many test subjects.

The first to be informed of this unfortunate event was one Arthur Petrelli, head of Pinehearst and savvy liar elite. It was his silver tongue that had brought the Brain-eater to Pinehearst to stay, making the troubled man believe that Arthur and his estranged wife Angela Petrelli were his true mother and father. Whether or not the Brain-eater believed this lie became immaterial, for the moment he heard that his old acquaintance and two-time attacker Mohinder Suresh was dead, the importance of being a Petrelli slipped his mind entirely. After much thought, he decided to visit the Geneticist one last time.

 

*~~~~~~~~~~~~*

 

The morgue was as white and cold a place as any other in Pinehearst. The labs, the cells, the offices, the inner halls- they all gave off a stark, barren feeling. Sylar supposed Arthur Petrelli strategized to make visitors feel at home when they first arrived; the main floor and his own office were full of fine lighting, expensive furniture, and the sort of coffee-house turned office building atmosphere that made one feel at home while still professional. Much like Arthur Petrelli’s patronizing personality, it was only after one scratched away at the surface, peeked beneath the warm, fuzzy exterior, that one began to truly know the heartless, sterile framework beneath. So it was that Sylar was only surprised by one thing in the morgue: the label ‘Mohinder Suresh’ on drawer A-5.

He couldn’t say how long he spent staring at it, simply letting his eyes scan the Times New Roman standard typesetting and the name that had become so familiar to him. Perhaps he spent as long gazing at the container of Mohinder Suresh as he had spent staring in contemplation at the body of Robert Ellis some two weeks before. Robert Ellis, a name that Angela Petrelli had identified as the alias of a pie-maker who kept a shop in a neighboring city. A man with an ability, unidentified, that was probably worth collecting, she said. Robert Ellis, who almost hadn’t responded to his own fabricated name. Robert Ellis, who had resisted to the bitter end, denied Sylar the knowledge of what power he was thieving this time. Sylar hadn’t understood it- what would the man care, after he was a dead? Sylar hadn’t understood it at all. Not until he made the unfortunate mistake of wiping his bloody fingers disrespectfully on the man’s cheek.

It had been a jolt, much like a little zap of electricity from one body to another. At first, Sylar had thought it was a static shock, but when Robert Ellis’ eyes snapped open and turned to him, he knew he was dreadfully wrong. Robert Ellis began to scream at the top of his lungs, reaching his hands up to where half of his skull had been sawed away. 

Sylar was more than startled, having never had a victim come back to life after death, let alone begin screaming bloody murder. He was quick to slap his hand over the man’s mouth, only to feel another short shock riddle through his fingertips. Robert Ellis stopped screaming. Robert Ellis’ eyes shut. Robert Ellis was dead. Again.

Lifting his hand, Sylar found himself staring, disbelievingly, at what he now considered the most useless power he had collected yet. One touch to give back life, another touch to kill, again, but for good. He was a murderer. Death was his business. As if he needed them alive again when he was done? After he had tested the ability once or twice more on unsuspecting strangers in a dark alley or two, he made the logical decision: This ability was a moronic piece of irony.

These were the thoughts that Sylar had entertained. They were perfectly reasonable, he believed, right up until the moment Arthur Petrelli had let out a resigned sigh into the phone and put down the receiver with the paralyzing utterance: “Dr. Suresh is dead.” Not once since Robert Ellis’ death had Sylar ever seriously thought to use that ability again.

And yet here he was, staring down the name Mohinder Suresh as though it were the man himself, debating whether or not it would be a mistake to test the power once more. Sylar grasped the handle and pulled, sliding the long tray out before him. The jerk of the metal was deceptive; for just a moment, Sylar thought that he felt movement within. He entertained the fleeting, irrational thought that perhaps Mohinder Suresh was not dead at all. But a careful examination revealed the truth once more. His skin, normally a subtle mocha color, was now paler, vaguely gray. It made his black curls look even darker, especially spread out against the bright silver tray. His bare chest bore the large incision of a doctor doing his best to determine the cause of death; his forehead had a similar sliver where the skull had been opened, but not by Sylar.

As he gazed down at the still and serious face of Mohinder Suresh, Sylar thought of their brief reunion over a week ago. He thought of how Mohinder hadn’t hesitated to throw him down, of Mohinder’s pained scream, “ _He deserves to die!_ ” between the crunching of Sylar’s skull against the floor. Though they had shared this building for over a week, after that encounter, Mohinder had pointedly told Arthur that if Sylar was anywhere near the laboratory the he would leave and never look back. With the exception of security tapes, Sylar had not seen Mohinder again until now. 

He wondered if, when he touched the corpse, he would see its history as Bridget Bailey’s power allowed him to do now. What would he see, if he looked back? Would he see Mohinder’s enthusiastic smile in Zane’s apartment or a tired, contented one over a cup of coffee on the road? Or would he see the brutal resolve of the man behind the needle and the desperate rage that would have killed Sylar nine days ago if he couldn’t heal?

The nagging question was simple: 

 

_Should I touch him?_

__

 

The deciding response was simply: 

 

_There are too many things left unsaid._

__

 

Sylar tempted fate.

He turned towards the corner and lifted a hand, as if to halt an oncoming car. The wires connecting the cameras in the room snapped. Little red lights faded to black. If Arthur Petrelli had been watching, then he would see no more. This secret was Sylar’s alone.

Reaching out slowly, Sylar let his hand hover above Mohinder’s stiff, stubbled cheek. He drew in a breath, held it, and very carefully touched his fingertips to the man’s jaw. Again, a small shock passed between bodies. Sylar stepped back immediately, not willing to make the same mistake twice. Fortunately for him, the scientist’s reaction was much more calm than that of Robert Ellis.

Mohinder opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling.

Sylar said nothing at first, not wanting to incite a negative response. He waited patiently, silently, as the other man squinted his eyes against the light above and frowned at his own confusion. Mohinder sat up slowly, giving a little jolt as he realized he was on a metal table, as well as in the nude, save a simple white sheet.

“What…?” The next moment of shock came at the Y-shaped incision across his chest, which Mohinder touched with a sudden gasp. “I-I’m…?!”

“Dead,” Sylar supplied. Mohinder looked up sharply at his voice, surprise quickly giving way to anger. Mohinder’s gaze narrowed into a deep scowl. “–Actually, alive, now. Not… dead,” Sylar added quickly, a bit awkwardly. The words inspired no curiosity; they merely provoked Mohinder’s quick temper. The man sat up fully and twisted his body to get off the tray, prepared to launch an attack at his sworn enemy. But Sylar held up his hands.

“Stop! Stop right there. Before you go any further, I need to tell you that you really did die, Mohinder.” Sylar’s gaze became serious and menacing, trying to carry all the threat he needed to stop the doctor from doing something foolish. “You were dead, and I brought you back. With an ability. But if you touch me again, you’ll die again. This time for good. Understand me? So just… calm down.”

“Wh-what have you done to me?” Mohinder pressed his palm over his chest and ran his fingers over the broad black stitches in his brown skin. “You killed me!”

Sylar bit back his annoyance at how obtuse Mohinder could sometimes be. “I didn’t. You can look at the autopsy report if you want. All I did was bring you back.” He tried not to let his words be snappish, lest Mohinder do something stupid again, but Sylar couldn’t help it. “But I can correct that if you want. If you prefer to be dead.”

The glare he received was nothing short of vicious. But Mohinder looked down at his chest again, at the slab he sat on, and lastly at the surroundings. Clearly a morgue. He took a moment to let the truth sink in. 

“…Was it natural?” he finally asked.

“About as natural as a punch in the face.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Mohinder countered irritably.

“It means that I think that I’ll be paying your dear friend Flint a visit soon. Ice is a good way to counter fire, isn’t it? I think I’ll start with his feet and work my way up. Then give him a good punch of my own and see if his head is hard enough not to shatter.” Sylar sneered.

“Flint…” Mohinder contemplated the punch he remembered from four days earlier and came to the logical conclusion as well. The illogical one in all this was that he had been brought back to life by Sylar. He turned a critical eye to the man. “Why would you bring me back? What do you want from me?”

“I want to talk,” Sylar said plainly. “Last time we really didn’t have the chance, what with me trying to escape Pinehearst and you smashing my skull into the floor.”

Mohinder bristled at that. “I should have killed you.” He thought he had, too. When Sylar later appeared in the halls of Pinehearst, perfectly fine, Mohinder had privately wondered about the safety of Claire Bennet.

“And I should have left you for dead on this slab. But here I am. So I think you owe me a few minutes of your time before you decide punching me in the face again is more important than being alive.”

“I don’t owe you _anything_ ,” Mohinder retorted brusquely. He pulled the sheet over and let his legs hang from tray, feeling anxious to be on his feet, anxious to let loose the hostility he felt so acutely.

Sylar, too, felt the tension gnaw at his nerves. It was difficult for them to hold back the biting comments that came so easily. “You owe me your life,” Sylar insisted, “again.” He thought of their last two exchanges in New York. “This isn’t the first time I’ve given it back to you.”

In an instant, Mohinder leapt from the table, charging at Sylar with the unnatural speed acquired from his flawed formula. The blow he intended was obvious, and it was Mohinder’s undeserved luck that the killer forced him back with his telekinesis when the doctor was within inches of meeting a second death. Mohinder hissed through his teeth, his body trembling against the force, hand frozen, about to strike, and his dark eyes bearing down hard on Sylar’s. The taller man stared calmly but sternly at Mohinder’s struggling figure, never breaking their gaze.

“So you still want me dead. I won’t say that I don’t deserve it.”

Mohinder swallowed, fingers twitching from their mid-air suspension, itching to wrap around Sylar’s throat. He breathed heavily, trying to bring his angry heartbeat back under control. Sylar simply shook his head. He had spent over a week asking himself these questions, wanting to ask them to this man. Now was his chance. He should keep himself in check and let Mohinder’s anger run its course.

With a slight lift of his chin Sylar sent the man backwards, but he did not give a mental push hard enough to knock Mohinder over, only hard enough to put a safe distance between them. The doctor snatched up the sheet that had dropped to the floor and tied it tightly around his waist with overenthusiastic tugs. A brief silence allowed each of them to consider their actions and words, to calm the anger and pride that flared up whenever they spoke. 

Mohinder looked down at his body again, taking in a deep breath. He rubbed a hand carefully over his forearm as if to test the truth behind its functioning. It was warm. He felt pain. It seemed unusually normal. After a long moment, Mohinder spoke. 

“Is… this new life permanent?”

Sylar only shrugged. “So far as I can tell. I haven’t discovered any unfortunate side-effects yet, besides that if I touch you a second time, you’re dead for good. It only works once. They don’t exactly give corpses gloves, so watch it,” he warned.

Mohinder fell quiet once more, thinking hard on that before he spoke again. Arthur Petrelli, everyone in Pinehearst, they thought he was dead. But did that mean…? He looked down at his forearm again, which still revealed grotesque scales and discoloration creeping up his body. He shivered. Was this still a problem, even after his death? Would he continue to evolve into a monster?

Sylar’s eyes followed Mohinder’s contemplative gaze to his arm. “It looks like you’re having a little trouble figuring out who you are, doctor. I wasn’t expecting that of you,” he finally said. The look Mohinder shot him bordered on vehement, but Sylar paid it no mind, turning the conversation serious once again. “You didn’t used to be so willing to throw your life away, Mohinder. What happened to you?”

Mohinder’s eyes lowered. “The situation’s changed. Things are… complicated now.”

“Arthur said you injected yourself with an unstable formula.”

“So you’re calling him ‘Arthur’ now? Not ‘father’ or ‘dad’?” Mohinder scoffed. He couldn’t properly express the mangled bitterness he felt when Arthur Petrelli informed him a week ago that Sylar was his son. It was an ironic injustice that twisted his stomach into knots and made his chest feel tight.

Sylar let out a sigh through his nose from those words. He leaned back against the wall behind him, crossing his arms over his chest. “How stupid do you really think I am, Mohinder?”

It was a point well taken. Mohinder pressed his palms back against the metal tray, watching his adversary warily. In truth, somewhat wearily, too. Somehow… this connection they shared was all too complicated, too draining. Giving Sylar answers felt easier than resisting right now. Anger was a tiresome thing, even after one was dead. “I needed Petrelli’s resources. To fix this. To stop this change in me. I’m sure you know all about it from him.”

“That’s a justification, not a real reason,” Sylar countered. “Why would you do it, Mohinder? You, of all people.” He asked it more earnestly than the doctor expected. There was something etched in Sylar’s expression, embedded deeply in the furrow of that brow. It was disappointment. It stung, and Mohinder wasn’t sure why. 

“I…” Mohinder struggled, groped blindly in his mind for the proper response. He didn’t feel that Sylar deserved answers, but perhaps that now he was owed them. Whether or not Mohinder believed Sylar had good motives in what he did, the fact remained that he had, indeed, spared the man’s life before. More than simply allowing him to live, this time Mohinder was dead, Sylar had brought him back. It was a volitional gesture he was not sure how to interpret; it was a gesture for which he felt strangely obligated to answer Sylar’s questions. Maybe only Sylar could truly appreciate Mohinder’s answers, his reasons, no matter how much Mohinder hated to own up to them. 

“Tell me.”

Mohinder looked down at the floor, trying to find the right words. “There are people like you… People who I’ve seen bring so much evil and suffering into this world…” He shook his head slowly. “I guess I thought that if I could just… force nature to take that leap of evolution again… If I could just figure out the formula, bypassing all the months of failed research and tests and trials, then I could find a way to bring about a great good as well. If I could just find a way to counter that evil in time to make a real difference. I could save myself, I could save others…” Mohinder sighed. “After all, what have I _really_ done in the past six months? The past year? It’s amounted to so little. What I did was impulsive. It was stupid. Desperate. I know that now,” he admitted.

A long moment passed between them. “Is that how you see me?” Sylar finally asked. “Incapable of redemption? Incapable of good?” This time he was the one to look away, to dig somewhere deep inside himself for an answer that was difficult to find. That maybe he didn’t even want to find. These were never questions he could ask out loud of anyone and expect an honest response. Not from Arthur, not from Angela, not even from Peter. Their words were always clouded with their own agendas, he knew. But Mohinder’s honesty, even now, he trusted.

Mohinder flinched at those questions, but did not back down. He had been through too much until this point to let himself feel sympathy freely, without question, for this man. “Do you think you’ve proved otherwise? After Montana? After holding me, Molly, and Maya hostage? Have you proven you’ve got that kind of mercy in you to any of us?”

Sylar looked up, an angry expression surfacing. “I could have killed you. I could have killed any of them. I could have, at any time, but I didn’t.”

“Oh, so you were doing me a favor?” Mohinder snapped back.

“Yes,” Sylar replied stiffly. “I used to respect you, Mohinder. I thought you knew that.”

Those words cut like a knife. Mohinder stepped forward again, waving his hands heatedly with his words. “How can you say things like that? How can you even pretend like that was the case? I won’t fall for it again! What are you trying to pull, acting like we’re friends- like you even know me?”

“You understood me!” Sylar shot back fiercely. He dropped his arms from his chest and faced the man defiantly, standing straight and tall. “Don’t lie to yourself, Mohinder! You were like me!”

“Like _you?_ ” Mohinder jabbed his finger in the air, pointing towards Sylar. “I was _never_ like you!”

Sylar growled under his breath and reached a hand to snatch that wrist back, to wrench that accusing finger out of his face, but stopped himself mere inches from the touch, eyes widening in alarm. Mohinder, too, had panic cross his face briefly, frightened for his second life. Each man slowly withdrew the offending appendage. Sylar took a deep breath.

“Like me. You wanted the truth. You needed it. You wanted to know your life, the universe- to… to _quantify_ the things in it. The good, the evil, the gray.” Sylar shook his head slowly. “I could have killed you any time I wanted. The motel, the car, your apartment, the loft. But it would have been a waste. You’re exactly like me. Still. Even more than before, now that you’ve tasted this side. Now that you know the kind of desperation I’ve felt all this time. You’ve become the ‘evil’ that you despised, and I’ve tried to be the ‘good’ that you always wanted. That’s why you should understand. Understand why I’m here.”

“What?” Sylar’s words were overwhelming. The fear and confusion Mohinder felt from them corrupted his lingering anger. A perplexed look came over his face, and Mohinder stared at Sylar disbelievingly, almost sarcastically. “Why… why you’re here? Why you feel the need to sidle up with Petrelli’s ‘just’ cause?” He rubbed the side of his face, as if it might clear his mind. “What do you want to hear? That you’re like me? That there’s good in you somewhere that you can fight for?”

Sylar said nothing. His stare said enough. It was smoldering, full of a quiet, intense longing for something just out of grasp that he had been hoping Mohinder could provide: recognition from a person who could identify with him. It was all too familiar a sentiment, Mohinder realized. He began to feel sick. Mohinder pushed his fingers into his hair, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead. 

Reaching out a hand, Sylar stopped it just short of Mohinder’s bare shoulder. He wanted to grasp it, to shake the man, to feel a connection that said he was right, since Mohinder would not yet admit it. He wanted to search the man’s body for his history, for the secret moments that said Mohinder doubted that sides were necessary at all, for the moments when Mohinder understood that none of it was necessary, good or evil. One could just _be._ Be in the state of limbo, of theory, that they had once shared. His hand hovered there, not a threat, not a comfort. Simply there.He wanted to be simply _there._

“Tell me, Mohinder. Just… explain it to me. Just say it.”

“We can’t change.” Mohinder forced the words out, letting his hand fall from his face and his shoulders sink in defeat. He looked over at the palm that reached out for him but never touched. That was simply the way of the world, wasn’t it? It would be forever out of their grasp; the only way to win was to stop reaching for it. If they picked a side, if they grasped one or the other, it would erase something inside them, something cherished. It would all be over. “We can’t change who we are, not when we still think we need to do it to be something we’re not meant to be. Saviors. Villains. This is your fault, and mine.” Mohinder looked up at Sylar, his eyes sober and serious. “I didn’t need to struggle for good until you were evil. I just wanted to know the truth.”

Sylar stared down at nothing as he thought. It was true; Mohinder knew him. Mohinder understood perfectly. It was why he had to bring the man back. He had to hear these words from someone who could comprehend it. Who could know completely these thoughts that fogged his mind. He had to hear it from Mohinder, not just know it inside. This was what had been missing since they last parted. 

“I didn’t need to be something until your father said it was my destiny.”

“But it’s not so easy to walk away anymore, is it? Not after all we’ve done.” Mohinder looked down at his chest, touching his fingertips to the wide cuts and stitches.

“I brought you back so that you could,” Sylar replied, letting his hand fall away. “I needed you to tell me I could leave. Now you can, too.”

Mohinder lifted his head, shaking it slightly. “I don’t understand. You brought me back so we could escape together?”

Sylar let out a short breath of a laugh. He met the doctor’s gaze. “Don’t be such a romantic, Mohinder. I brought you back to set you free. And to tell me that I can go, too. This hunger… this need to kill that you’ve always thought defines me…” Sylar smirked slightly, a bitter expression that was somehow muted by the calm he now felt. “Angela and Arthur took turns telling me I could feed it, or that I could be rid of it… but no one tried to tell me that it didn’t matter at all. That I could walk away from it without leaving it behind or becoming it. We’re more than our DNA, more than what we think of our destiny, even. Right, Mohinder? Haven’t we proven that, that two of us?”

Mohinder stared at the man, something nostalgic washing over him that was reminiscent of chit-chat in cafes and motel rooms, of the men searching for meaning they had always been. Even after Montana, Mohinder had never thought that part of their history was a lie, but now he felt as though he had been blinded to its truth for some time by his own anger towards Sylar’s deceptions.

“What now?” Mohinder asked.

“You can go back upstairs and keep working on the formula, or you can walk away. I’ll cut the cameras and you can leave through the loading dock.” Sylar shrugged. “That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Mohinder lifted his arm, looking at the shiny scales emerging from his skin. He thought for a moment, and then finally looked over at Sylar. “Can… you fix me?” He swallowed. “Can you fix this? What’s happening to me? Can you see the problem- how I’m broken?”

Sylar closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. “I can’t touch you anymore, Mohinder. I couldn’t even try if I wanted to.”

Something in Mohinder’s chest tightened. There it was again- the strange, poignant sort of irony that had always existed between them. It made him angry. It made him sad. It seemed to symbolize that it was too late, even now, for them to salvage this peculiar relationship. Now there was simply a face given to what kept them apart: a touch of death.

“I’m offering you this chance to leave this behind, Mohinder. Don’t ruin it,” Sylar requested simply. He turned towards the door, starting out of the morgue.

Mohinder opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t find anything else to say besides “Wait!” He lifted the edge of the thin sheet around his waist, pulled it over his right hand, and then reached out, grasping Sylar’s wrist before he could go far. It made the man jump, looking over at Mohinder. 

“Why?” Mohinder insisted, gripping that wrist tightly. Sylar’s words, his paradoxically straightforward and ambiguous honesty about their natures… it didn’t seem to be enough. “Why are you letting me go?”

The corner of Sylar’s mouth quirked very slightly in a subtle smile. “Why? Because in spite of all this animosity between us… if it came down to it, I think you would be the only one who would bring me back, if you could. Well, you’d at least think about it. At least once.”

Mohinder shook his head, looking baffled. “You’ve no reason to believe that, after the things I’ve done. After the things that you’ve done.”

Sylar took in a slow breath and pulled his wrist away from Mohinder’s hold. A cryptic serenity passed over his features. “I know you. You’re me.” With that, Sylar stepped out of the room, out of Mohinder’s grasp. As he walked, the cameras before him lowered their lenses in recognition of his power and put out their invasive red lights. Sylar left Mohinder standing in the doorway looking after his retreating figure, feeling no small measure of guilt for his very existence. Feeling as if somewhat of a friend, perhaps Mohinder’s only one left, was walking away.

 

*~~~~~~~~~~~~*

 

And so it was that the Brain-eater and the Geneticist shared what one or both of them assumed might be the very last of their highly complicated and frequently convoluted conversations on being alive and not-dead. The many questions about life and the nature of what was good and what was evil that had kept them awake at night, running marathons in their heads that lead to nowhere, they now realized were simply irrelevant. 

The most important question, which both had neglected to seriously ask themselves until one lay unexpectedly dead in the Pinehearst morgue, was one that has plagued mankind since its beginning some 6 million, 364 thousand, 7 hundred and 54 years ago: _Who am I?_

The answer, although presumed to be far more complex by both parties, was simply this: I am myself and I am you, and you are you, and you are me. For in this world in good and evil, with silver-tongued Petrellis lurking in every corner prepared to tell you what you should do and who you are meant to be, both men had forgotten the basic fact that when one is born, one is neither good, nor evil, but oneself. If the Brain-eater were destined for only evil he might not have spared the Geneticist’s life time and time again. If the Geneticist were destined for only good he might not have sacrificed the lives of countless test subjects to save his own.

The true problem rests, perhaps, in that the most difficult predicament in life is to admit that you are nothing but yourself in a number of forms, both good and evil, and occasionally we meet ourselves in the friendly eyes of someone else over a cup of coffee and in chatter about destiny, or in the darkness of a villain duct-taped to a kitchen chair. 

It should come as no surprise, then, that the Brain-eater and the Geneticist, finally able to confess that they saw themselves in one another, were able to repeat that fortuitous meeting of fate again and again in their lifetimes. Presently, the only difference was that each meeting carried with it a physical representation the cosmic joke they had subconsciously known to be true since they first met: no matter how their hearts or minds touched in the understanding of their connection, there was always a chasm between them that could never truly be breached. It was an opportunity they had lost long ago. With the Brain-eater’s ability at work, now they might never share an empathetic hug or even a handshake to express the mutual respect they quietly held for one another.

When they met again, 3 months, 17 days, 4 hours, 13 minutes, and 37 seconds after the Brain-eater walked out of the Pinehearst morgue, in a small pie shop owned now by one Olive Snook at the corner of two busy city streets, they could only wave in greeting, say trivial words that expressed a fraction of what it meant to know their delicate friendship once more, and experience again and again the strange distance from themselves that it had always meant to know one another.


End file.
